


Sinking Into the Sea

by pocketknifeknight



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Not A Fix-It, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), RMS Titanic, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), the ship still sinks, yes both of those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 21:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketknifeknight/pseuds/pocketknifeknight
Summary: In 1912, Aziraphale's worries include his bookshop, his printing friend's sick wife, and how he's going to make his way to the first class dining room on the Titanic for an unforgettable meal.  When his friend, a book printer, asks Aziraphale to go collect master plates from a publisher in America, he also offers Aziraphale his ticket aboard the Titanic.  Aziraphale can't resist.  The Head Office has nothing to say, so Aziraphale decides he's earned himself a vacation.Unfortunately, a demon, not the one he wants to see, is aboard causing trouble on orders from Hell.  Possibly, a demon, the one he is desperate (but unwilling to admit he wants) to see, is also aboard, trying to find a way to save Aziraphale without anyone being the wiser.





	Sinking Into the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sprung from my utter and complete despair that the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 was during Aziraphale and Crowley's big fight (1862 until 1941). My frustration and way too much time spent on Benjamin Guggenheim’s Wikipedia page became this. So here we are. Enjoy!

The dark stacks of the unsinkable ship stood tall and proud against the pure blue sky, rare for early April, but welcome after weeks of cold and dreary rain. A crowd brimming with people from every class and creed flowed around Aziraphale like the rivers that fed the ocean. Parents shouted at excited children to stick close, a woman with an ornate, wide-brimmed hat argued with a man, who was telling her in no uncertain terms that her horse would not be allowed to board, and three men in big coats and caps walked by smelling of their last beer before their new jobs aboard the Titanic. 

Aziraphale watched his luggage roll away on a trolley, the little paper tags held on by twine to the handles bouncing along as the trolley dodged between tearful goodbyes and excited hellos. His luggage would, of course, make it to his room without any problems. Just a small miracle. 

He walked up the boarding ramp and presented his ticket to the uniformed sailor. 

“Afternoon, Mr… Fell?” he said, reading the ticket. Aziraphale nodded. “Not a common name, is it?” 

“No, it’s quite unique,” Aziraphale said with a friendly smile, not answering the unasked questions he was used to, like if that was his real name. The ticket seemed to satisfy the boarding agent, and he let Aziraphale pass with a stern nod. There were still other people to let board, in a winding line down the ramp. 

After being shuffled and ushered and jostled through a hallway white walls varying between wood and metal, directed into a lift, and then practically shoved out several levels below, Aziraphale found himself in a cavernous lobby with breathtaking, carved mahogany stairs and railing that seemed to go up forever. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he could climb them and end up in the Head Office for a report, but of course, no. They’d told Aziraphale they would check in when he’d made it to New York. 

A bronze cherub—he could forgive that, since the rest of the room was so wonderful—held a torch aloft on top of a pedestal at the bottom of the staircase, eyes vacant and expression vapid. Aziraphale came face to face with it, and wondered whether anyone would notice, whether anyone would mind if he… well, better not. 

He was still clutching his ticket in one hand, sure he would be asked to preset it amid the chaos of shipping off, or it might prove helpful to show someone so he might find his room. It was even possible that someone would think him a stowaway; of course he’d dressed for the occasion, in a cream jacket and brown trousers, and a top hat he’d dusted off from a few years ago. But the security was hawk-eyed in sharply pressed uniforms, walking in pairs with billy clubs at their belts. A woman in a pale green and fawn dress with lovely lace ties and a gold cigarette case casually walked up to two of the officers and held her cigarette, pressed into its matching gold holder, and asked for a light. 

_ Must be what they call old money _ , thought Aziraphale. Used to belonging in such magnificent riches. He turned his attention back to the interior design, the intricate and delicate molding on the ceiling, and the lit glass dome just above the stairs. With his eyes turned upward, he climbed several steps to get a closer look, fascinated with the detail in the ceiling, and was nearly knocked backwards down the stairs when he collided with someone coming down. 

The man he’d run into—it was Aziraphale’s fault; he hadn’t been looking where he was going—reached out and grabbed him by the arm just in time to keep him somewhat upright. 

“Steady on!” the man said, still holding on to him even though Aziraphale had gotten his feet solidly back under him and was clutching the railing beneath his ticket. 

“Oh, my apologies, I was… quite distracted by the marvelous ship,” he said breathlessly, blinking, still startled and glad he hadn’t just gotten himself disincorporated by breaking his neck on a ship that hadn’t even left the docks yet. How embarrassing that paperwork would have been.

The gentleman—for he was very much every inch of what Aziraphale imagined when someone uttered the word  _ gentleman _ —kept his hand lingering on the cream sleeve, the light from the cherub’s torch sparkling off his well-manicured fingernails. Aziraphale looked down at where they still had contact and the man cleared his throat and released him, then found his pocket watch chain and reeled it in; the pocket watch had been dangling from his waistcoat, as if he’d dropped it to catch Aziraphale. 

“It is marvelous, isn’t it?” he said, not sparing a glance at the watch before snapping it shut and sliding it into his pocket. “Most of the passengers in this part of the ship seem unimpressed.” He gestured around with a nod of his head. Aziraphale turned; a pair of bored women rolled their eyes behind a third woman’s back as she chatted with a uniformed sailor. Several men were making plans together in another corner, and one looked up as Aziraphale watched him. 

“Benjamin, there you are!” A man with a tight cut waistcoat, a slim waist, tawny hair slicked back, and a smile that Aziraphale could only think of as  _ threatening _ waved to the man behind him. 

“Be right there, Eli!" He looked back to Aziraphale with intense grey eyes. His face looked nearly angelic, and Aziraphale felt he had the right to judge that, imagining streaks of gold in the waves of his hair. “I’d like to discuss the marvelous ship with you, but I’m meant to meet my party. Will you be here later?” 

Aziraphale blinked again, stunned by how kind this man, Benjamin, was being after only a few words exchanged, and after he’d made a fool of himself by gawking at the ceiling instead of looking where he was going. But he had to admit, he’d been hoping to make a friend on the ship. 

“I… can be. I’m staying in, er…” He looked down at his crumpled ticket, at the room number. Benjamin peered down, still two steps above him, towering. 

“Ahh. Well, how about we meet up on deck for a walk after dinner? Fresh air will be nice after all the cigar smoke and brandy.” His eyes sparkled when they met Aziraphale’s, and he felt himself blush. 

“I’m, ah,” Aziraphale flourished his ticket, wondering if Benjamin had read his name as well. He’d come up with a name to put on his bookshop paperwork a little over a hundred years before, but he never actually  _ used _ it with people who weren’t bankers. And he certainly didn’t want this man to call him  _ Arthur _ . “I’m Aziraphale. And you must be Benjamin.” 

“Benjamin Guggenheim. Pleased to meet you, Azira.” He held out his hand to shake and Aziraphale realized he must have seen the name on his ticket and assumed he’d just said his name too quickly. Inwardly, he groaned. Azira wasn’t a name, but how kind of Benjamin to act as if it were. 

“Likewise, Benjamin,” he said, grasping his hand, surprised at how very solid his grip was. “I look forward to our stroll after dinner.” 

Benjamin smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder before releasing his hand slowly, letting his fingers drag along Aziraphale’s palm, electric in its intensity. He passed by without hesitation, walking down the stairs to greet his friends while he pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. 

The ship’s horns gave two long blasts, and Aziraphale jumped, almost falling back down the stairs again, before he realized he was still just standing there, staring at the group of men. He took the stairs two at a time, determined to find his room. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Aziraphale's room was, in a word, if he was being generous, cozy. 

If he wasn't being generous, and using rather a few more words, it was cramped, without even a window to make it feel worthwhile to be inside the room if he wasn't sleeping or washing. And he didn't really have a need for sleep.

His luggage was there, as he had known it would be, including his clothes trunk and a trunk comprised almost entirely of books and various teas and chocolates for making cocoa. He wasn't sure if there would be any to his liking aboard, although he was certain he could find something in America. 

Just as he’d plucked out a book and put his trunks on the uncomfortably high shelf above his uncomfortably low bed, cheers erupted from above; the ship must be departing, he thought, and decided to go out on deck to watch England recede into the sea. He had no one to wave to, unless he happened to spot a certain, slim redhead in the crowd. 

But he wouldn’t spot him. Not after the last time they had met in St. James Park.

Aziraphale shook his head and put the demon out of his mind, waving to signal he wanted the lift held, and sliding in just as the operator was about to pull the gates closed. 

The deck was chaos, everyone standing and shouting, waving, some crying, some laughing. Aziraphale looked down, wondering if he would spot any of his book associates, any of his suppliers or even the printer he’d gotten the tickets from when his wife fell ill and he was unable to make it. 

She’d recover, Aziraphale knew. Well, made sure of. Small miracles the Head Office couldn’t object to, since they were doing such  _ good _ . Unlike his trunks arriving perfectly safe and timely in his quarters. 

“We’ll miss you!”

“I love you!”

“Take care of Crow!” 

Aziraphale’s head whipped around, his heart light and his eyes wide on hearing the syllable, but when he looked around, it was a boy, maybe eleven years old, hollering down to some family members with a shaggy black dog who was jumping at the end of a short leash and whining. Aziraphale could hear it all the way up on deck. He frowned and turned his back on England, hoping some time away from the country would, what was the phrase? Make the heart grow fonder? Or at least tolerant. 

A tug on his sleeve got his attention, and Aziraphale turned to find a small boy, maybe ten or eleven with his arms full of carnations in a near rainbow of colors, starting to wilt. Aziraphale wondered if he’d found them on board or if he had brought them on, intending to make pocket money for the journey. 

“Would you like to buy a flower, mister?” he asked. 

“Why, certainly I would! How much would this one be?” he asked, hand hesitating for a moment over a red one, but finally plucking a white one out. The boy looked delighted until the ship lurched and started moving away from the dock. His eyes went wide with fear, and Aziraphale held his shoulder to steady him. After the initial jolt, the ship felt steady, just the usual rocking of the sea, and the boy relaxed. 

“Erm, a shilling!” he said, putting his charming smile back on. Aziraphale stood, a shilling palmed from his pocket, patting the outside of his coat dramatically. 

“Oh, where did I put that shilling?” he asked, and then, with a  _ eureka  _ look, reached toward the boy’s ear, plucking the coin from thin air and placing it in the boy’s outstretched hand with an encouraging smile. He was likely not charging others a shilling for a flower, but the smile on his face at the trick when Aziraphale handed him the coin was worth it. 

“Thanks, mister!” He turned, clutching his bundle of flowers, and ran down the line of people to see who else wanted some before the ship pulled too far from the docks. 

Aziraphale didn’t throw the carnation to the crowd, or even into the sea. He kept it for himself, holding it against his book as he walked around the deck to find somewhere a little less crowded to read until it was time for tea. 

Reading could hardly hold his attention for long, even though usually, with a big enough book and a nice drink for the weather, Aziraphale could be undisturbable for hours. He’d already had two refills on his cocktail, a Robert Burns, which the lovely bartender had recommended, and that came with a shortbread cookie, when his eyes drifted up to watch the people passing by on the deck again. He had a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he couldn’t seem to shake. Someone he was looking for. 

Aziraphale sighed, annoyed at his distraction, and tucked his book next to his hip on the lounge chair. Only a few of the chairs were occupied down the stretch of deck in view, although people wandered around, most coupled, friends or lovers, parents and children, arm in arm, and in deep conversation, not a glance to the rest of the world, unto themselves. A little ache in his chest was just a reminder that he could not have that. He was on Earth to thwart demonic wiles, not to play at having a family. He had his books, and his shop, and some business associates who were kind and sometimes invited him for dinner. 

Thwarting demonic wiles was not the worst job in the world, Aziraphale knew, although he wondered if this might be a vacation or if there would be some demonic wiles to thwart onboard. It was hard to tell, being that the ship was full of love, not only the passengers, the love the ships designers had put into making it so grand, and the Captain’s love for his job; it made feeling out the particular brand of hatred most demons exuded difficult. He could only do his best, though. Keep a weathered eye out, and hope that if any hellish demon was afoot, he could find them before they did whatever it was they had been directed to do. Or whatever they’d dreamt up themselves, though that was always less dangerous; demons did not usually have particularly creative imaginations. Well, most demons. One demon was particularly creative in ways to bring about annoyance and chaos, sometimes aided by Aziraphale himself, though never to the point of truly disobeying orders. 

He ate the last bite of his cookie and stood, taking his book and his flower back to his room to dress for dinner, trying to put what he was supposed to be doing after the meal out of his mind. Benjamin would probably be unable to pull himself away from his busy schedule, at any rate, but Aziraphale was happy to have met him, and happier to have been caught from falling down the stairs. And surely, it was a big ship, but it was to be a long journey, they would meet again, at least in passing, and exchange pleasantries. 

“Azira!” a voice called from above him as he was turning into the interior of the ship. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you until after dinner.” Aziraphale spun a full circle, then looked up and turned again, finally seeing Benjamin on a promenade that overlooked the lower deck. He was beaming down at Aziraphale from the middle of a knot of incredibly well dressed people, men and woman already dressed for dinner, some smoking, enjoying the fresh air, giddy with their journey and company. 

“Oh, well, yes, here I am!” he called up, holding an arm out, standing awkwardly too far away to reasonably be having a conversation. “I’ll see you after dinner, then?” 

As though he’d read Aziraphale’s mind, he muttered  _ excuse me _ ’s to his friends and held a finger up over the railing.  _ One moment. _

He walked toward the middle of the ship, disappearing inside, and Aziraphale waited, not sure if he was meant to come up and find Benjamin, or if his new acquaintance was coming down to meet him. Suddenly, there he was, appearing in the nearest doorway on the same level as Aziraphale now. 

“Mind if I join you?”

“How kind. You didn’t have to leave your friends. Looked as if you were all having a lovely time,” Aziraphale said, genuinely. 

“I wanted to ask if you would like to join us for dinner, actually. It seemed rather rude of me not to before.” Benjamin stepped to one side to let a uniformed woman with a stack of towels pass by. “I cannot abide rudeness.” 

“What a generous offer! I just need to pop down to my room to change, I was on my way there, and then to have dinner in the mid-level dining room,” Aziraphale said, though the idea of the food that must be in first class very appealing as well as the further company of Benjamin. 

“I’ll come with you, then we can go up to the first class dining room together. No need to worry, old boy,” Benjamin said and clapped him on the shoulder with a solid, large hand. 

“Come with me to… dress?” he asked, which made Benjamin laugh. Aziraphale laughed as well, not entirely sure why it had been funny, but enjoying the shared joke. 

“I’ll turn my back if you’re modest.” 

“It’s a small quarters, I’m afraid you can’t make a full turn around.” 

Benjamin laughed harder, and Aziraphale beamed; that  _ had _ been an intentional joke. 

They made their way to where the corridors narrowed slightly, nothing like third class or the bowels of the ship where engineers must even now be running around to get the ship up to speed. He took the key to his door out and fit it in the lock. 

“You weren’t wrong,” Benjamin said, peering inside. Aziraphale just smiled up at him.

“It’s got everything I truly need! My clothes, my books, a wash basin,” he said, gesturing. 

“You forgot its most important feature.” Benjamin’s voice was lower now, not like the laughter that rang through the halls just a moment before. Ariraphale tilted his head, and looked around the room. 

“Well it does lack a window, so not that,” he mumbled. Benjamin’s eyes were shining with amusement, corners of his mouth tugging up, giving his face pleasant lines.

“It has a bed, of course,” he said, ducking his head and looking at Aziraphale through his lashes, like streaks of pale gold sunlight coming through grey clouds. 

“Oh! Well, yes, it does.” He should have been used to someone being so forward, but it had been quite a few years since he’d been around someone who was such a shameless flirt. Aziraphale didn’t need to see a green carnation in Benjamin’s lapel, or see him leaving a discreet gentleman’s club to know exactly his persuasion. Even with the gold band wedding ring on his left hand. Lots of men he’d become friends with had wives, sometimes even a string of them going back years, if they were old enough and not great at keeping secrets. 

“I’ll step out so you can change for dinner,” Benjamin said, pulling his pocket watch out without breaking eye contact. He glanced at it, snapped it shut, and stepped back into the hallway. Aziraphale shut the door gently behind him and took a deep breath. 

He dressed hastily and emerged with a white vest to go under his jacket, and a more appropriate pair of trousers, along with his nice shoes. He had planned on eating in first class at least one night, even if it took something of a small miracle, but this didn’t even need his persuasion. 

“You look wonderful, old chap,” Benjamin said with a smile, looking him over. 

“Thank you. Shall we?” Aziraphale gestured down the hallway toward the lift back up to the level they were dining on. 

The dining room was just as marvelous as the rest of the ship, tables sturdy and large, chairs with carved legs and backs, and plump cushions on the seat for the comfort of the first class guests. 

“So, Mr. Fell, is it?” a woman with a long, skinny cigarette holder between her fingers, thin smoke curling from the end as it smoldered. “How do you find yourself on this ship? Traveling for business or pleasure?” She had an obvious American accent, but spoke as if she was trying to sound posh and impressive. Aziraphale smiled warmly at her. 

“I’m a bookseller. A printer associate of mine was planning a trip to America to retrieve master plates for a manuscript he’s interested in printing. His wife is in poor health, though, so he asked if I’d like to take his place, and here I am!” A few people were listening, some having their own conversations, but only Benjamin was giving Aziraphale his full attention. Even the woman who’d asked the question was more interested in her cigarette and her glass of sherry than she was his answer. 

“How fortunate for us you were available to make the trip,” Benjamin said, sparing a glance around the table. “Although I do hope your friend’s wife makes a full recovery.” 

“Oh, I believe she will. She was already on the mend, but still, Edward wanted to stay with her. Very good man. Old friend of mine,” Aziraphale said. Benjamin picked up his glass of champagne and raised it up. The rest of the table seemed to notice, and raised their glasses halfheartedly. 

“To old friends! And new,” he said, and Aziraphale laughed nervously at the way Benjamin looked at him during the toast, wondering how anyone could be so wildly obvious. 

A flash of wavy red hair pulled back into a queue caught his eye, and he turned in his seat, trying to follow it, wondering… certainly not. He didn’t catch sight of the hair, even looking for a woman whom he might have mistaken for someone else, but no red hair made itself apparent. 

“Everything okay, Azira?” Benjamin asked, but Aziraphale was saved from answering by a troupe of waiters coming to present the caviar course. 

Dinner was delicious, all six courses, including a flaming desert that Aziraphale thought was rather irresponsible on a ship, but was delighted to sample all the same. He mostly listened to the others speaking, Benjamin and an associate talking business, the women deciding where they were going to spend the summer in America, arguing between New York City and somewhere further north. 

“Where are these master plates you’re retrieving?” Benjamin asked, leaning back in his chair as some of the other men started to gather themselves to go smoke cigars. 

“The publisher is in New York. I have a return trip ticket after a week. On the… oh, bother, I can’t recall the name. Mm-something,” Aziraphale said, smiling. 

“Mm-maybe,” said Benjamin, leaning a little closer to him. “In that week, when you’re not collecting master plates, I’d love to see you. I’m a member of a club there, if you’d like to be my guest.” 

“That sounds like a treat,” Aziraphale said. 

“Benjamin, you scoundrel, come on! We’re going to sample some of those Moroccan cigars Astor brought aboard!” called the man with the threatening smile. He shot Aziraphale a look like he’d just spotted an insignificant insect: annoyed, inconvenienced, but not concerned. 

“Yes, yes, alright,” Benjamin said, and behind the cover of the table, where none of the others could see, without looking, Benjamin tucked a slip of paper into Aziraphale’s jacket pocket. He blinked, but didn’t look down, not wanting to be obvious. Benjamin used Aziraphale’s chair arm to push himself up and waved to Aziraphale before following the crowd of men. Aziraphale found himself with a table of women shooting him looks varying from curious to disdainful. 

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said with a polite nod, and shuffled off to the exit. A uniformed sailor gave him a curt nod before he left, and he rushed down the hallway, looking back to see if anyone was following him. When he was alone in the hallway, he pulled the paper from his pocket and opened the single fold. 

_ Ask the steward to show you to the Versailles Suite tonight at half past midnight.  _

_ I will show you my bed since you were kind enough to show me yours. _

Aziraphale stared at the paper, mouth open, before stuffing it back in his pocket and stepping quickly toward the lift. 

“What level, sir?” the operator asked in a tired voice. Aziraphale put his hand over the note in his pocket again. He needed some air, even though he didn’t need to breathe, but some cold air against his face seemed exactly the right thing. 

“The deck, please. However I can get outside most quickly.” He produced a pound note and held it out to the lift operator. 

“Yes sir, thank you, sir!” the man said. Aziraphale was distracted, but glanced at him. He was just a boy. Couldn’t have been older than sixteen. 

“Are you staying in New York, then? When we get there?” he asked, conversationally. The boy laughed. 

“Oh, no, sir, I’m coming back on the return. My family are all back in Chester. I’m bringing my wages back to them. I’ve got four brothers and two little sisters, and I want them to go to school. This is my third posting, and when I’m old enough, I’ll join the Navy, so I can take care of them better.” He looked proud, but splotches of red on his cheek showed he didn’t often talk at length to passengers. 

“That’s so very good of you, my boy. Your brothers and sisters are lucky to have you.” Aziraphale beamed at him as the lift rumbled to a stop, and the boy reached forward, pulling the doors apart to allow Aziraphale out on the top deck. 

“Thank you, sir. Have a good night.” 

“And you,” Aziraphale said with a nod before he stepped out, to head outside, into the cold, starry night. 

He picked a bench a safe distance back from the railing with the thunderous waves crashing against the ship hundreds of feet below; it wouldn’t do to be inconveniently discorporated by tipping oneself over the side of a ship, Aziraphale thought, folding his hands in his lap and looking at the eyelash of a moon surrounded by the stars, the water and the wind creating a bit of ocean spray against his face, even far back as he was. It felt divine against his hot cheeks as he thought about the note in his pocket again. 

He took the note out and read it once more. Clearly, Benjamin was used to getting his way. Aziraphale laughed, wondering what the poor man would think if he knew he’d propositioned an angel. Not everyone could get away with that. Especially not since dear Oscar had passed. 

_ At least he had Robert there, at the end _ , Aziraphale though wistfully. He knew who he wanted to be next to his bedside at the end. Well, the metaphorical end, anyway. 

There would be no bedside for an angel’s end.

Decisively, Aziraphale stood, note held in both hands, refolded, and walked to the railing. With one hand, he gripped the rail and looked over the edge, seeing decks levels below him, and the sea beyond that, and decided maybe a very,  _ very _ small miracle was okay, for effect. He tossed the note into the wind, and a small, convenient breeze picked it up and carried it out over the open water before letting it fall into the icy water below, swallowed beneath the rippling waves. 

Aziraphale breathed a little sigh of relief as it sank out of sight, and watched the starlight sparkle off the water. 

A yell, followed by a crash like breaking glass and a loud thump jolted Aziraphale out of his introspection and he turned, looking around wildly for the source. Someone sounded like they were in trouble! He hoped it wasn't an attack or someone fallen overboard.

"Hello? Are you okay?" he called, moving quickly to round the corner of the deck. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Crowley had been sitting in one of the engine room supply cupboards for the better part of the day, when he wasn’t fetching more wine from the first class kitchens, and champagne if it was within arms reach. The rooms next to the engines were the warmest places on the ship that weren’t actually inside or directly adjacent to the furnaces, and Crowley hated to get soot and other men’s sweat all over his very fine suit. He’d ditched the sideburns almost immediately after growing them, and cut his hair even shorter, trying to keep it from curling out of its sharp part that was stylish. 

It was curling anyway in the heat and humidity, despite his best efforts, but just at that moment, he’d much rather be warm than fashionable. 

Everything had been so cold, just coming out of spending the winter in London, and overhearing the Head Office assign Marbas… or Barbas, whatever he’s going by now, to make certain the Unsinkable Ship’s watchmen had a difficult time spotting any obstacles in the ship’s way. Crowley had already seen that absolute bastard crossing names off a list and making sure to pocket the keys to the binocular cabinet. 

The other reason he tried not to go up above was because there were so many children afoot, running about, playing jacks and counting games like children liked, had always liked… 

And he couldn’t save them all. 

He magicked the cork out of the next bottle, the only red he’d managed to get his hands on the last time he ran to the kitchens, where he’d been almost spotted by the one person he had been trying harder to not be spotted by than Marbas.

Those damn blonde curls defying the men all around him with their slick straight hair, his genuine smile and that bloody  _ charming _ laugh, Crowley had only stood still for a moment, three bottles of alcohol in each hand, holding the tops between his long fingers, another, the red, tucked under one arm. 

He’d realized how shock still he was not a moment too late, high-tailing it before Aziraphale got a proper look round, right in the middle of his pâté course. And then maybe he’d hidden behind a pillar, bottles clinking, but nobody staring at his obvious thievery, thanks to a little demonic miracle, so he could get another glimpse of the lines around his eyes when he laughed and the satisfied look on his face when he tasted something for the first time and he had the fork halfway between his lips.

The red was half gone before he’d even spared it a second thought. Crowley pulled the thin quilt he’d taken from a shelf inside the supply closet, mostly full of linens, tighter around his shoulders. He just couldn’t seem to get  _ warm _ . 

_ Maybe _ , he thought,  _ if I just get colder  _ first _ , I can come back to my little hidey-hole and feel the heat from the engines leech through the walls. _

Bunking in a linen closet had its perks, like a nest made of quilts, down duvets, and goose-feather pillows arranged on the lowest shelf of the cupboard, pushing aside boxes of detergent powders. 

He took the blanket off, dropping it without a second thought to the floor, and took the rest of the bottle of red with him as he found the lift, empty, and had to operate it himself. 

Not  _ physically _ operate it, mind, and his state of drunkenness assured the lift wobbled a bit as it ascended more levels than it really had any right to, but Crowley found himself stumbling, feet not quite obeying him as well as he liked, on to the open promenade of first class. 

Feet. Stupid feet, and legs, now that he thought about it. Much easier to just have one appendage, did all the jobs like moving and digesting and using his tongue to smell things. Never tripped, as a snake. 

_ Now this is more like it _ , he thought, looking around at the swanky deck chairs and lounges, an abandoned game of checkers with the pieces knocking around as the ship swayed in the water. He took up on one of the lounges, letting his legs stop making a fool of him, crossing his ankles and taking a big drink from his wine bottle. 

The stars above him were vast and bright, only a sliver of the moon chasing a few away halfheartedly off in the distance. Crowley remembered the stars, breathing them into being, turning the cosmic compost heap of leftover gasses and minerals into constellations and stories, embodying them to make sure they were just  _ so. _ He closed his eyes, the stars still strewn across his memory, burned into him just like the memory of falling, the memory of hissing in Eve’s ear, of… of Aziraphale’s face the last time they’d spoken. 

He sighed, and looked back up at the sky. The stars were less painful to think about. 

The next time he tipped the bottle up to take a drink, it was empty, again, and Crowley squinted, even closed one eye and look inside the dark green glass through the neck. It slipped from his grip and crashed into his face, cracking one lens of his dark glasses and bashing into his forehead. 

"Ahhhhrrr—fuck!" He clutched his face and rolled sideways off the lounge, shattering the bottle to glittering shards across the deck where they matched the stars above. Laying prone, Crowley pulled his damaged glasses off and flung them toward the sea, not hearing them clatter to the deck on the level below. 

_ "Hello? Are you okay?"  _

Crowley froze. He would recognize that voice anywhere, any time, from the beginning to the end, accompanied by the quick worried steps of his fanciest pair of shoes, though he would have known it was him in his stockinged feet. What on earth was that blasted, lovely angel doing up on deck at this hour? 

He rolled, very slowly, underneath the lounge chair, hoping that Aziraphale would find no one and leave to go below for his hot cocoa before bed. 

The steps moved closer, and Crowley could  _ feel _ Aziraphale’s goodness and worry and wondered if it would be too noticeable to simply disappear back into his supply closet; miracles, demonic or not, did always leave a bit of a trace, and if there was a demon who’s trace Aziraphale could recognize… well, it was his. Crowley wished he could swear, but he settled for just thinking swear words very loudly, holding as perfectly still as he could. 

_ Go away, Aziraphale _ , he thought.  _ You want to go down to your bed and magic yourself up some cocoa, and read while all the good people on the ship sleep without a worry in the world… not knowing what’s likely to come.  _

“Hello?” Aziraphale called again, his voice present and closer still. Crowley hoped he didn’t attract guards or sailors or whoever else might be up with them. 

Footsteps drew closer… a few steps closer. Honestly, he had to be practically on top of the lounge at this point, and Crowley knew he was skinny, but if Aziraphale looked down, bent at all to see even slightly underneath, he would see Crowley, drunk, hiding and ashamed. 

“Hmm…” Aziraphale hummed, and the footsteps receded more slowly than they’d come, like he was still listening, straining to hear even a hint of trouble, somewhere he could help. 

Always such a do gooder. 

Crowley waited until he heard a door open and close, then waited longer, wishing he could move and reform the bottle and sober up a bit so he didn’t feel like the ship was sloshing him about as it rocked up and down and back and forth, and,  _ oh no.  _

It had to have been long enough, because Crowley rolled over on his stomach, elbows crunching the shards of the wine bottle, and threw up, making an even greater mess. 

_ How is it _ , Crowley asked himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and pushing himself unsteadily to his feet,  _ that we immortal, powerful occult beings can still get bloody seasick?! _

He went back below, cleaning himself off, making sure to get the bits of broken wine bottle stuck to his sleeves, but leaving the mess on the deck; if someone asked, he had to report at least one foul deed. 

But nobody  _ would _ ask. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Aziraphale found himself, once again, distracted from a large, interesting book and an appropriately delicious beverage while he sat in his berth, cozy in his pajamas, a pillow behind his head. He kept going to turn the page and finding he hadn’t really taken in a single word on the one previous. 

There had been something going on up on the deck. Someone had cried out, and it hadn’t sounded like someone just having a bit too much fun and breaking glass out of carelessness. The noise had been something he knew but just couldn’t place. It played in his mind again, the deck covered in darkness, shadows deep and thick, impossible to see through. 

He had thought perhaps it had been a child, up past their bed time, worried they’d be in trouble if they were caught, but the swear hadn’t sounded like a child. A third class passenger who’d snuck up on the highest deck? Someone from the engine room, come to get some fresh air? A jilted lover, throwing glassware to relieve their anger? 

Aziraphale sighed and shifted, trying to adjust his pillow, wondering if he shouldn’t just try to sleep, at least until dawn, when he could go back up to the deck and examine where he’d heard the noise again. 

He didn’t sleep, but he didn’t get any reading done either. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Crowley didn’t bother to sober himself up. He crawled into the linen closet, locked the door, and pulled six more blankets off the shelves, hardly shaking them out before adding them to the mass on top of him.. 

He didn’t wake up until Saturday morning, with a bad taste in his mouth and a great need of some sort of drink. He pulled out his pocket watch and saw it was nine in the morning. 

A breakfast cocktail, then. 

_ Perfect _ , he thought.  _ That’s another one I can take credit for back at the head office. Breakfast cocktails. _

×××××××××××××××××××××

Aziraphale tried to put the odd noise out of his mind, especially when his morning investigation only found a housekeeper hurriedly cleaning up a mess of broken glass and the contents of someone’s stomach; it must have been just a typical drunken accident that someone had run off from in fear of getting in trouble. Just as Aziraphale had suspected. 

He thought about it as he had scrumptious, warm pastries for breakfast, with perfectly brewed tea and butter at just the right temperature for spreading on his toast. The noise was nagging at the back of his mind while he finished three books under a wide, white linen deck umbrella with his feet up and a delightful lemon fizz being refilled on the hour by an attentive waiter Aziraphale tipped generously. 

The better part of his day had been spent on one of the lower decks, closer to the water, engine rumbling and water whooshing against the ship’s hull. It wasn’t that he was avoiding dear Benjamin, but after not meeting him in his suite, Aziraphale didn’t want to run into him accidentally. Plus, the second class deck’s were perfectly fine for his purposes: being undisturbed between mealtimes with his nose in a book. 

Perhaps he was avoiding Benjamin just a little. He had, after all, chosen a deck chair that could not be spotted from one of the higher decks, and made sure the umbrella he was under was angled to hide anything someone leaning over the rails might be able to see. 

The dinner bell rang, and Aziraphale looked up, taking his spectacles off and putting them in his waistcoat pocket. He  _ was _ feeling peckish, and he’d heard there would be braised duck with roasted leeks as the main course, so he stretched and looked around, seeing most folks out on the deck starting to pack up and head inside, some dragging their children, unwilling to pause their games to do something as trivial as eat, by their togs toward the doors. 

As he started to follow the flow of the crowd, one such mother with a rambunctious boy she had hoisted under her arm and who was wiggling fiercely, dropped her hat. Aziraphale bowed to pick it up for her, but paused when he saw something that had been hidden underneath one of the covered lifeboats, swept to the side and out of sight. 

“Thank you,” the woman said, exasperated, and just a little impatiently. Aziraphale stood and gave her a winning smile, returning the hat with a flourish. 

“My pleasure, madam,” he said, and gestured with an arm for her to go ahead of him. 

When she was gone, when everyone had cleared from the deck, Aziraphale shot one last look around; nobody seemed to be looking for anything, nothing forgotten. 

He crouched down and crawled underneath the lifeboat, rear in the air, undignified, and reached out, catching the dark object with the tips of his fingers, pulling it to himself. 

“Well who would have thought I’d find you here?” a voice behind him said, startling Aziraphale. He jerked up and the back of his head cracked loudly against the lifeboat’s bottom. 

Tears streaming from his eyes at the momentary pain, he backed out from his prone position and looked up. 

Benjamin stood above him, hair shining in the lingering sunlight, looking worried after how hard Aziraphale had hit. 

“Benjamin, how… how nice to see you,” Aziraphale said, accepting Benjamin’s hand up, still clutching the object he’d found. He stuffed it in his coat pocket, out of sight, hopefully out of mind for Benjamin. 

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. Aziraphale rubbed the collision point on the back of his head. No blood, and he was sure he’d be fine soon. The pain was mortal, already fading to a low throb; it would be gone completely by the time the sun set. 

“Absolutely fine! No harm done,” he said, showing his clean palm to put Benjamin’s mind at ease. 

“If you’re sure,” Benjamin said, eyes narrow, searching him for signs of distress. Aziraphale smiled, trying to reassure him. He seemed satisfied as his expression changed, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips. 

“I missed you last night.” His voice was low, sultry, and Aziraphale cleared his throat, glancing around. 

“I… well, yes, I’m afraid I wasn’t quite up to a tour of your suite last night. I should have sent a note.” He didn’t know how to let Benjamin down gently; he’d been so kind to invite him to dine in first class, and seemed a nice man, a good friend, but Aziraphale couldn’t exactly tell him he was seeing someone. In fact, he hadn’t seen  _ someone _ in years now. 

“That’s quite all right,” Benjamin said, waving a hand. “Shall we go to dinner?” He turned, as if the question were already answered, but Aziraphale stayed rooted to the deck. 

“I’m not dressed,” he said quietly. 

“Nonsense, you look marvelous!” Benjamin argued, not turning fully back around, just giving him a glance over his shoulder, the matter settled in his mind. 

“I’m honored, truly, by your generosity, Benjamin,” he started, but Benjamin interrupted.

“Well if you feel you need a nicer jacket, we can stop by your room. I remember the way.” 

Aziraphale sighed. He’d been right; Benjamin was used to having his way, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They walked to Aziraphale’s room, where he had to stop Benjamin following him into the berth.

“I’ll be right out,” he said firmly. Benjamin frowned, holding a hand out to stop the door closing, leaning inside. 

“Perhaps we can skip dinner. If you’re up for a tour of my suite now. Everyone else is in the dining room, so you’d be privileged to a  _ private _ tour.” 

“Benjamin, I’m flattered, really, but I’m not… it’s not a good time for me to take private tours of men’s suites. I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise,” Aziraphale explained, genuinely sorry. Benjamin's face flew through emotions rapidly: surprised, crestfallen, embarrassed, angry, and then… composed, with just a rose stain on his cheeks.

“Well, that’s fine, of course. I’ll wait out here, and then we can eat,” he said, words stiffer than before, but not cold. Aziraphale smiled kindly at him.

“I’m not really that hungry, to be truthful. Perhaps another night?” 

Only Aziraphale would have noticed the disappointment in Benjamin’s look, his voice. 

“Another time,” he said, and Aziraphale nodded. 

“Absolutely. Enjoy dinner.” He held up a hand and waved, and Benjamin, after a moment’s hesitation, turned and left. Aziraphale shut the door slowly, so it didn’t echo like a rejection down the unusually quiet hallway. 

He sat heavily on the room’s sofa, leaning against the plush red cushion, and closed his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have come on this little trip, told Edward he was needed at his shop, instead, and that he ought to write to his contact in New York and ask if they could be delivered another way. The food was delicious, and the relaxation was wonderful, but all this could have been avoided, if he’d just stayed put. 

Standing, Aziraphale pulled his coat off, hanging it on the coat stand, which was bolted to the floor like everything else on the ship. Something clattered in the pocket, and Aziraphale paused, puzzled, before remembering the entire reason he’d been caught unawares by Benjamin. 

He reached in the pocket, and then pulled his hand out again immediately, stung. 

“Ouch!” Finger stuck in his mouth to stop the little blood that had welled up, he used his other hand to pull the pocket open and peer inside. Something black, a few shiny bits, sticking out at odd angles; he hadn’t broken it when he’d put it in his pocket, he hoped. Carefully, he extracted the pair of black spectacles, one lens gone besides a shard of smoky glass clinging to the frame, one arm twisted around and the piece on the same side bent out like a little black wing. 

Aziraphale looked around his room as if Crowley might appear from anywhere, his heart in his throat and his chest tight with expectation, hope… but of course, he was alone. These glasses could belong to anyone. Some poor blind man who’d dropped and stepped on them, and then accidentally kicked them under the lifeboat. 

With a sigh, he tucked the broken glasses back into the pocket of his coat, not knowing exactly why he felt the need to keep the junk; they were unusable without a small miracle, but it seemed stupid to waste one on something he wasn’t even going to  _ use _ , but he couldn’t just bin them. 

Everything reminded him of Crowley, but people  _ wore sunglasses _ . They weren’t reserved solely to hide the sunshine slit-pupiled eyes he’d first met in a garden thousands of years ago, now were they? He’d seen half a dozen pairs of sunglasses just passing people taking the air on deck when they weren’t using wide-brimmed hats of parasols. Some were even green instead of tinged black! 

His silk pajamas slid out of his trunk easily, fine and smooth against his fingers, slightly wrinkled, but he was staying in.

_ Yes _ , Aziraphale thought.  _ People wear sunglasses. Of course they do. _

He snapped the trunk shut, and exerted all his concentration on not thinking about Crowley somewhere on the ship, and not speaking to him. He would at least say hello, even if he was still upset, wouldn’t he? 

Aziraphale would want him to. Even if he was still upset himself with Crowley’s request of him. 

With a scoff, Aziraphale got into bed, made himself cozy, and pulled out the book he was in the middle of, _Anticipations of the Reaction of Mechanical and Scientific Progress upon Human Life and Thought_ by a fellow named H.G. Wells; it was rather an exciting read, although it seems to be more along the lines of extrapolations on technology and science rather than actual prophecies of the future. Aziraphale had been thinking of perusing an original manuscript by the name alone, for his shop, but reading through, he wasn’t sure it was worth it. 

Thinking about his shop, at the very least, almost entirely distracted Aziraphale from thinking about Crowley. On the ship. Or not. Probably not. All for the best. If he saw Crowley, he’d very likely end up forgiving the awful, impossible request he’d made. 

In truth, he missed his dear friend. More than he could admit to himself. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

The days on board had been a slow whirl of walking the deck, browsing the library, and a few rousing games of quoits when he’d been invited to play by a group of kind young men and women who’d noticed him watching. He hadn’t been very good at first, but after a few rounds, it appeared as if the targets compromised with the rings and shifted slightly to accommodate them. Of course, none of the group he’d played with would have admitted it to each other that the targets seemed to be moving. 

On Sunday morning, Aziraphale put on his nice, modest clothes (definitely not his dinner clothes, which would have been far too flashy for church), and walked to a lounge that had been converted to a chapel to attend the Sunday service. A priest was speaking with a man who wore a sturdy suit, and had rough hands he moved as he spoke. 

“I’m sorry, Father, but I must admit, I never thought about church while I was designing her. I promise you,” he said grasping the priest’s hand in both his own. “My next ship will have a chapel as grand as the ballroom.” His had a touch of mischief in his eyes as the priest smiled with him. 

“You must keep God in your mind and your heart, always, Thomas. Stay for the service, lad.” 

Thomas bowed his head and squeezed the priest’s hand. 

“I’d be honored, Father, but I have to go down to the engines, make sure everything is running smoothly. See if we can get a few more knots out of her, aye?” He clapped the priest on the shoulder. Aziraphale took a seat near the back of the room, and watched Thomas walk out, and caught sight of Benjamin’s friend with the threatening grin and tawny hair waiting just outside the lounge’s doors, looking impatient. 

“Come now, Thomas, you’ll make the papers if we get in early. And the water is so calm, it will be no trouble at all to pick up speed,” he started as soon as Thomas crossed the threshold, but the rest of their conversation was lost as they moved further away. Aziraphale wondered why Benjamin’s friend—he couldn’t remember his name—was trying to get Thomas to push the ship faster, but an extra day in New York sounded delightful. 

After the service, a familiar voice rose above everyone else’s. 

“Azira!” 

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale turned with a smile to find exactly who he knew he would: Benjamin, standing with a grin spread on his face, light coming through the window teasing against his hair and cheek. 

“Benjamin, how lovely to see you. Did you come for the service?” he asked. 

“Well, don’t tell Jesus, but if I’m being truthful, I came to find you,” he said, ducking his head to speak softly. Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh, the irony of his words not lost. 

“I think the Almighty prefers truthfulness, so no need to whisper,” Aziraphale said. Benjamin laughed, too. 

“I wasn’t sure where else to find you. It’s like we’ve been missing each other.” 

“Ah, yes. Ships in the night, and all,” Aziraphale said and cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?” 

“You can come swimming with me. There’s a lovely, heated pool, and no one will be there during breakfast, if I can tempt you to skip it.” He looked so hopeful, like he’d carefully planned out this invitation. Aziraphale almost hated to shoot him down again.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t pack—” 

“A bathing costume? I packed two. I’m positive one will fit.” 

They stood in silence, Aziraphale sure that Benjamin was thinking the same thing he was:  _ no excuses now _ . 

“Oh, well, all right. Heated pool, you say?” Benjamin clapped him on the shoulder and they went to find the pool, on one of the upper decks, indoors, with steam soft rising off the water. It looked perfectly lovely, and Aziraphale hoped he wouldn’t regret accepting the invitation. 

“There’s a changing room through here. I’ve got a locker, and there are towels over there,” he said, gesturing to the rack of fluffy white towels looking inviting as clouds. 

Aziraphale insisted on changing separately, taking the bathing costume and a thin robe to a bathroom to extract himself from his church clothes. 

When he was finished, he had a neat pile of folded clothes, his jacket draped over one arm, and was snugly dressed in a bathing costume under the robe that fit well enough for being on loan. 

“Thank you for letting me borrow this, Benjamin,” Aziraphale said, walking back into the changing area, padding through in bare feet, and looking up to see Benjamin, completely nude, standing in front of a mirror and tucking his hair under a swim cap as neatly as possible. 

“Oh, no problem, dear boy!” he said, turning to face him, giving Aziraphale an eyeful of more than he’d intended to see. 

“So sorry!” Aziraphale said, rushing past him, dropping his clothes and his shoes on a bench as he went. “I’ll be… testing the water!” He heard Benjamin’s laugh echo through into the empty room of the pool, tile amplifying the laugh until it sounded mean. 

Benjamin came through just a minute later, still pulling a strap of his bathing suit over one shoulder. Aziraphale had already gone to the steps down, touching the water with his bare, pink toes; he was sure all of him was pink, not just his toes, but determinedly looked at the water, focusing on not slipping down the wooden steps. He was nearly certain Benjamin had meant for that to happen. 

“I put your clothes in the locker with mine,” Benjamin said as he walked to the edge of the pool, squatting a few times and stretching his arms, pulling one across his chest, and then the other. 

“Oh, thank you,” said Aziraphale, finally sliding an entire foot into the water, stepping down, holding on to the hand rail. He felt Benjamin’s eyes on him.

“You know, there are two types of men, Azira,” he said, now pulling his arms over top his head and tugging on the elbows. He was fit—that much Aziraphale had seen in the locker room—and clearly used to physical leisure activities. Maybe even competition. 

“Just two?” He had both feet in the water, and was considering taking another step down so the water would come over his knees. 

“There are men who wade in slowly,” Benjamin said, gesturing at Aziraphale’s feet, ankle deep. “And men who jump in.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, to tell Benjamin there were also those who refused to get in the water, or those who had to be pushed in, but Benjamin crouched and sprang, hands one on top of the other as he slid into the water, almost without a splash. Aziraphale watched him slide gracefully through the pool, soaring like he was flying underwater, and arc up to emerge almost the entire length of the pool away, treading water and turning to look back. 

“I prefer the slow approach,” he said, louder than he needed to, taking another step down. The water was warm, but goose pimples still rose all up Aziraphale’s legs, and then his arms as he took another step down, decidedly not looking at Benjamin. He was so hasty stepping down that a little water splashed against the fabric stretched over his stomach, and he jumped, surprised by the sudden wetness of it all; that was all it took, a little jolt, for his feet to slip out from under him against the slick stairs, and he pitched sideways into the water, reaching up to hold his nose before he went under. 

Under the water, Aziraphale opened his eyes, sinking, weightless, surprised at how peaceful he felt suddenly reminded of what it felt to be without a vessel, pure grace and celestial power floating through the unmade universe, waiting to come into being. 

He didn’t often think about those times, the dark, floating existence where he did and did not live, did not breathe with lungs but with spirit, and consumed the potential of the future. 

Aziraphale kicked with his legs and free arm, pushing himself through the water to the surface dappled in golden light coming through the high windows. 

Benjamin was a few feet away, still treading water, brows drawn in concern at his fall, but Aziraphale emerged laughing.

“You see? There are more than two types of men. Sometimes you try to be careful and end up plunging headfirst into the water by mistake anyway!” 

They were both laughing, and somehow ended up splashing each other, although neither would admit to being so childish they had started it. They raced, and Benjamin won, of course, Aziraphale not having quite the technique or fitness of his friend, but Benjamin did slow down so it wasn’t a punishing race, and stayed fun and friendly. 

Aziraphale was just getting ready to grab Benjamin’s ankle in a rather unsporting attempt to slow him down in their latest race when a door opened and voices trickled in: children’s giggles and ladies chatting, men boasting loudly. He whipped around, finding families and pairs coming into the pool, no doubt after waiting an hour since eating breakfast. The sun was high, and light was streaming into the pool; how had they not noticed the time passing so quickly? Aziraphale cleared his throat and swam in as stately a manner as he could manage to the stairs to make his way out of the water. Benjamin followed him after he’d reached the other end of the pool and noticed Aziraphale hadn’t been on his heels, and was looking very obviously like he was trying to stifle a giggle. 

They made their way into the changing room where a few men roamed around in various states of undress. Benjamin gave Aziraphale his neat stack of clothes with a wink, and Aziraphale grabbed a towel to go change. 

He emerged from the bathroom, his clothes sticking to his still damp skin, no matter how well he’d toweled off. He could have snapped his fingers and been perfectly comfortable, but Benjamin might have noticed something off. 

“I’m famished; shall we order a late breakfast?” Benjamin asked when Aziraphale found him smoothing his hair out in a mirror mounted over a sink. Catching sight of his pocket watch, Benjamin grinned. “Or more likely an early lunch.” 

_ What could the harm be? _ thought Aziraphale. Benjamin had been perfectly appropriate, surely a meal couldn’t hurt. Plus, he’d heard there were pastries he hadn’t sampled yet being served for breakfast; perhaps they would be available for lunch, too. 

“Go on then,” Aziraphale said, letting Benjamin lead the way to the dining room. 

Benjamin sweet-talked and tipped the staff into setting up a table for them in a smaller, private dining room off the main hall with open windows and a crisp ocean breeze; they had come further north, Aziraphale guessed, as the nights had gotten much colder, and the days hardly warmed up even under the bright April sunshine. 

“Another lemon fizz?” Benjamin asked, nodding at Aziraphale’s nearly empty glass. 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t, thank you,” he said, leaning back and fighting the temptation to unbutton his waist coat. At least he was practiced at it fighting temptation. 

“You know what I could do with right about now?” Benjamin asked, not bothering to fight temptation and stay decent, his waistcoat unbuttoned already. Aziraphale turned his head ever so slightly to indicate he was listening, a small  _ go on _ . “A nap.” 

Aziraphale snorted. 

“That does sound rather good, but my book was just getting interesting,” he said, watching Benjamin for signs he was going to protest or, scandalously, invite Aziraphale back to his suite to nap with him. Benjamin closed his eyes and tipped his head back. 

“I have to meet with Eli and a few others; they’ve got some kind of investment opportunity for me. Some gent from second class wants to manufacture… oh, I don’t remember. Incredibly forgettable.” He sighed and stood, stretching his arms out before he pulled out his bill fold and set another generous tip on the table, for opening up special for the two of them. Aziraphale stood, too. 

“I hope it goes well,” he said, putting his napkin on the table neatly and pushing in his chair. Before Aziraphale could properly turn and head toward the door with a friendly wave, Benjamin was around the table and had a hand on his shoulder. 

“Now, Azira, I know what you said, about the private tour, but reconsider: you’d be doing yourself a disfavor if you went through this entire voyage without seeing one of the first class suites. And mine is exceptional, darling,” Benjamin said, leading him toward the door. Aziraphale was just glad he wasn’t going to be trapped in the dining room with him before he could answer the question. He looked straight forward at the door. 

There couldn’t be any harm, he thought, of seeing his suite. Aziraphale had enough self control to keep the evening innocent, as long as he kept his wits about him. No drinks, and he would be just fine seeing the decorum, perhaps a nice view or some lovely art, and then retiring to his own bed for the night. 

And Benjamin wasn’t wrong; he very much wanted to see more of the magnificent ship. 

“Oh, very well. But just a tour. That’s all,” he said sternly, but Benjamin was grinning and gave him a quick side-armed squeeze before he let go and they were out the doors, standing a respectable distance apart, Benjamin straightening his jacket with an excited grin. 

“Eleven. Suite B eighty two, and I’ll make sure Victor takes the night for himself.” Benjamin winked, and was gone before Aziraphale had time to tut. 

He tutted anyway. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Aziraphale spent his afternoon not reading, like he’d said, but nervously pacing the deck, and being too distracted to eat, and lying to himself by pretending to think about the book shops he was excited to visit in New York. 

He could stand Benjamin up again, but then he certainly wouldn’t get a chance to see the suites, and he’d heard the decor was top of the line. The ship he was to return on wouldn’t have the extravagant decor he hadn’t seen since he’d been in Versailles just before the turn of the 17th century. The palace had been stunning, and Aziraphale was rather interested to see if the architects on the Titanic had been able to do it justice without having seen it in its full glory. 

At least an hour passed while Aziraphale went back to his berth to retrieve a scarf and gloves, and his more suitable coat, as air had become incredibly chilly, and while he was there, he decided to organize his trunks, even though it was still a few days until they made port. First he arranged the books by size, which made the most sense, but then decided he’d like to try alphabetical by author’s name, tucked neatly next to the cocoas and teas, which he arranged from dark to light, and then rearranged by time of day they’re best drank. 

After all that rearranging, Aziraphale did need a good, strong cup of cocoa. He found a porter and requested a kettle and some cream, and then spent so long fixing his cup that he’d been quite forced into performing the tiniest of miracles to reheat the water and milk to the perfect temperature. He thought about how Crowley would have laughed at him, if he were there, for being so fussy. 

His mind spun in place when Crowley sauntered through it, head tossed back, legs akimbo over the arm of whatever poor chair he happened to be abusing. Aziraphale thought of him in the tiny berth, the two of them sharing a bottle of something stronger than cocoa, laughing at something they'd seen on deck. Perhaps how silly John Astor's mustache looked after he'd taken a dip in the pool, drooping and dripping. Or even how several children might have swarmed Crowley to prod him into a game of marbles or jacks, and he'd not-so-reluctantly agreed. Kids had always loved Crowley for some reason, and Aziraphale had never ceased to be amazed by his patience with them. It was only adults who were in danger from his wicked ways. 

Aziraphale sighed and finished his cocoa, leaving the tray outside his door as he'd been instructed. 

Fitted in more layers than he needed, Aziraphale made his way back up toward the deck to see if he could make the next few hours go by either very slowly or all at once, he wasn't sure which he'd rather. 

"It's such a clear night, the lads don't even need the binoculars, do they?" a voice carried down the hallway, coming from a private room; Aziraphale slowed so his footsteps wouldn't disturb anyone. 

"Therein lies the problem, Eli. The waters are calm, hardly enough wind to stir a pot let alone show any disturbances." Aziraphale stopped. Eli. That was his name, the slim, tawny-haired friend of Benjamin’s he’d seen talking to Thomas Andrews. He moved closer, spotting the cracked door to what was actually a servant’s stairs entry, and Aziraphale stopped just outside, poised to move quickly if he was caught eavesdropping. 

“It’s spring, and the few warnings about icebergs have been from much further north. Just suggest opening the ship up a little. The men in the engine room can handle it. Especially with the smooth sailing, it won’t be a problem to get in while everyone’s asleep on Tuesday! A whole day and a half early, just imagine the headlines!” 

“Yes, yes, alright,” the other voice answered Eli, and there was a bit of scuffling as it seemed their conversation came to a close; Aziraphale launched himself down the hallway, making it as far as he could as quickly as he could without being too obviously noisy, then he turned and walked back the way he’d originally been going so he could get a glimpse of whoever was coming out of the room. 

A uniformed officer (although Aziraphale was nearly certain he wasn’t the Captain, with his sharp cheeks and smooth, boyish face) strode out and gave Aziraphale a curt nod, and then Eli slid out after him, turning to head in the opposite direction. He stopped when he caught sight of Aziraphale, looking… angry? 

“Good evening,” Aziraphale chirped, gloved hands clasped together in front of him, a smile spread across his face like he hadn’t heard a thing they were discussing. “Getting chilly out there, isn’t it!” Small talk threw most people off their suspicions, he’d realized thousands of years ago. Something Crowley had never really gotten the idea behind, as he hated small talk. 

Eli glowered at him. 

“Sure. Chilly.” His eyes were not quite the right shade of brown, Aziraphale noticed as he was glared at while Eli stalked past him. Then he caught a whiff of… well, he hoped it was evil, because if it wasn’t, it was a very bad cologne, and the poor man needed to find a new scent. 

Evil usually smelled, as close as could be described to a human’s nose, as mossy decay, pepper and sulfur. The sulfur was the part that humans might be able to smell, if they had exceptionally good noses, though most did not. 

Somehow, Crowley had always smelled a little more like cinnamon instead of pepper, which gave the other scents a much more pleasant hue, more like pine and a cozy fire. Aziraphale had never admitted this to anyone, even Crowley, and no other angels had ever commented or asked, so he let it go as something uniquely Crowley, like so many other things about him. 

_ Focus _ , thought Aziraphale. How had his mind gone back to Crowley? He put his hands in his pockets of his coat just for something to do, and felt the broken glasses again, not snagging at his gloves but still mangled. 

_ He’s not here _ , Aziraphale told himself, but at least one demon was. Eli. No doubt going by some pseudonym, but demon all the same. He wondered if Benjamin knew. Or the man he’d been speaking with, the officer. But the officer was long gone down another hallway, past more doors, certainly, than Aziraphale had time to look through to interrogate him. Something was wrong, and Aziraphale wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. 

Back up on deck in the dying light of the setting sun, Aziraphale returned to where he’d heard the noise he’d investigated, in the middle of the night, gripping the glasses still inside his coat pocket, in his gloved hand. 

“Oh, Crowley, if you’re here, I’m going to discorporate you,” he whispered, looking around and under the deck chairs, not exactly sure what he was looking for, but knowing he’d know when he found it. If he found it. 

“Mr. Fell! Hey, d’ya want to play with us? Just about to start a new round!” a voice called from a lower deck as he passed the railing, eyes raking the deck boards for some sign. He looked up and then down, spotting the group young men and women he’d played quoits with earlier in the week. He waved at them.

"No, sorry, James, I'm afraid I'm… busy at the moment!" he said with an apologetic smile. When he looked closer, though, he realized it was the same exact deck he’d found the glasses on, slid under a boat. The boat he’d banged his head on was still solidly there, where Benjamin had found him. Possibly while looking from this first class deck. 

His head turned from the deck chair the broken glass had been next to back to the lower deck, and all the people looking up at him, some shielding their eyes from the lowering sun. As he looked back and forth, they dispersed, starting their game up again without him, and Aziraphale pulled the glasses out of his pocket and looked at them. One broken lens, a smashed bottle… 

Had someone been wearing their sunglasses at night? The moon had hardly been a sliver and most of the lamps had been extinguished for the night, so it had been dark. Much too dark for anyone out and about, who could have possibly disappeared just seconds after the noise, to be wearing them.

Well, except the obvious. 

Aziraphale walked over to the deck chair and sat on it, touching the soft towel and cushion that had been laid, freshly laundered. 

He inhaled through his nose. Two, then three deep breaths. 

Nothing. Not a lick of sulfur or moss or cinnamon. 

Damn. 

Standing, he started moving again just for something to do, heading down and around to walk into the ship, wandering the halls. He hoped Crowley ( _ if he's aboard, which is unlikely _ , said a voice in his head) wasn't working with Eli to do something dastardly. Neither Gabriel nor Michael had given any indication there was going to be anything untoward planned. Maybe they didn't know? 

But there was always an inkling, a suspicion of what the other side was up to. It was how Crowley and Aziraphale had avoided suspicion all those thousands of years, by claiming to be spying on the other, unnoticed. 

All part of the Arrangement. 

With a sigh, he went deeper down a set of stairs and then another, following a hallway that felt warm and stifling, so much so that Aziraphale stripped his gloves from his hands, tucking them carefully in his pocket with the glasses. He looked where he was going but didn’t really see; he was letting his feet lead him now, wondering how far into the ship he could get lost, where he would find himself. 

He wandered for over an hour, by his pocket watch’s estimation, passing officers and engine workers with smudges of soot on their sweaty faces, sneaking away for some fresh air. They all ignored Aziraphale, miraculously, because he didn’t particularly feel like explaining why he was wandering around the areas that weren’t designated for passengers. He walked through the cargo hold, seeing cars and crates and unsurprisingly, no horses. 

It wasn’t like in Rome or Istanbul or Tokyo or Canberra where he could walk for miles and keep finding interesting places, little sushi restaurants or antique stores with old manuscripts; sure, he could walk for miles, potentially, on the Titanic, but he was certain the most interesting thing he was going to find was a linen closet. Perhaps the engine, if the low rumble that grew louder with each step was anything to go by. 

Aziraphale stopped in front of a door without markings, and reached for the handle, his  _ so sorry _ ready for if he interrupted something or found himself unwanted. Something about the door seemed different, like there was something waiting behind it for him. Angels could sense these things. He gripped the handle, turned and pulled. 

A linen closet. Perfectly organized, not a fold out of place. 

He sighed, disappointed for no reason. That’s what he thought he’d find. 

Aziraphale turned and headed back to the last set of stairs he’d descended, wondering where the lift down here might be, as all those stairs hadn’t been so terribly coming down, but the other direction seemed a little more than he felt like dealing with. 

The sun had gone, though the stars had yet to come out en masse, waiting for a better stage. The moon was nowhere to be found, spotlight dead in the sky. 

His breaths came out in puffs, and Aziraphale put his gloves back on, securing his scarf more tightly around his neck. After the warmth of the ship’s engine, the cold outside felt downright unpleasant. Looking around, he found he was at the back of the ship, watching the wake ripple behind as they flew through the water. It appeared Eli had convinced the Captain to bring the ship up to speed after all. 

It was getting close to the time he was meant to visit Benjamin’s room, his heart jumping with every tick of the pocket watch’s hand. 

_ Keep your wits about you, old boy, and the evening will be splendid, _ he told himself firmly, starting toward the first class lift that would take him where he needed to go. He hoped Benjamin had had the foresight to tell the steward operating the lift that he was expecting company. 

The steward practically lit up when he saw Aziraphale. It was the same lad who he’d spoken with the first night, with the siblings he was supporting. 

“Good evening, sir! Are you going to Mr. Guggenheim’s suite, sir?” he asked cheerfully, and Aziraphale had to remind himself to not look so worried about it. 

“Yes, I am. Did he tell you to expect me?” he asked, stepping inside. 

“Yes, sir, he did. I mean, I didn’t know it was you, sir, but he said you’d be blonde, and you were meeting him at eleven. It’s nearly that time, now,” he said, checking his watch. Aziraphale wondered if it was his, or part of the uniform, as it looked too fine for someone like the lad to have bought for himself with his family at home. 

“I hope I find you well,” Aziraphale said as the lift gave a slight lurch. He hoped the lad hadn’t jumped to any conclusions about his visit at such a late hour. 

“Very well, sir,” he said, bouncing the balls of his feet as the lift moved. Aziraphale made sure there was a pound note in his pocket and handed it to the steward once he’d opened the door. 

“Exceptional, as always,” Aziraphale said with a smile before he walked into the corridor, glancing at the doors. 

“Thank you!” 

Aziraphale waved, and found the door he was looking for. B82, stamped in gold on the dark wood. His stomach knotted up as he raised his fist and rapped on the door, three sharp knocks that echoed in the quiet hallway. He glanced around, certain the sound of the knock was enough to rouse others from their beds and bring them to see what all the commotion was about. 

But before anyone else had peered out, Benjamin opened the door. 

“Good evening, darling. Right on time,” he said, pulling the door all the way open and gesturing for Aziraphale to come inside. He gave a polite gesture between a nod and a bow, and passed Benjamin, who was clad in his dressing gown with silk pajamas underneath.

“Ah, er, good evening, Benjamin. Your suite is… stunning,” he said, almost struck dumb with amazement. 

The walls were white with gold molding and accents, aqua drapes hanging in panels along the walls even though it was an inside room, and there wouldn’t be so much as a porthole behind them. A matching aqua cushioned lounge and set of chairs in the same style sat around a lavish fireplace made of white marble and gold trim that shone where the warm firelight danced along it. Aziraphale had to force his own mouth to close as it was open, jaw dropped at how he’d been absolutely transported nearly a hundred years back to the great palace of Versailles. 

“I knew you’d love it,” Benjamin said, and when Aziraphale spared him a glance, frankly forgetting he’d been standing there and watching him gape like a carp, he saw how fondly Benjamin was smiling. 

“Absolutely marvelous,” he said. “I’m so… thank you. For inviting me, that is.” His eyes roved around the room, waking a few steps forward to touch the back of one of the gold chairs, fingers fondly tracing the elegant ornamentation. And of course his mind went straight to Crowley, with stockinged legs and heeled boots, coat of rich red and black brocade open, his whole self draped over a chair nearly identical to the one under his fingers, before the French revolution, before he’d needed saving. They’d gone to a party at the palace of Versailles and not left it for two weeks, ever finding wine to drink and music to dance to, and rooms to sneak off to when Aziraphale had needed a minute to catch his breath or take his coiffed powdered wig off. They had been dreadfully itchy. 

He cleared his throat and shook his head. 

“The bedroom is even more gorgeous,” Benjamin said, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and leading him through a gold-adorned doorway and into a boudoir, complete with a large bed, or at least larger than any of the narrow bunks, stacked one on top of the other (on top of the other, in third class). A plush, aqua velvet duvet covered the bed loosely, as if it was waiting for its occupants to crawl back inside, welcoming. Just the way Aziraphale thought a bed ought to look, even if he didn’t particularly use them. 

“You’re right, it’s very nice. Comfortable, I imagine,” he said conversationally. Benjamin’s downright wicked smile caused him to blush; he shouldn’t have commented on the bed at all. 

“See for yourself,” Benjamin positively purred, sitting down at patting the duvet next to him. 

“I told you, Benjamin—” 

“Ben. You can call me Ben. No need to be so formal, darling,” he interrupted, patting the duvet again. Aziraphale blew air out of his nostrils in a vaguely irritated puff and, against his better judgment, sat himself gingerly on the duvet, close to the foot of the bed. 

“Ben. As I said, I really cannot accept your invitation to more than a tour. It’s not an ideal time, and you’re lovely, really, but… I hope we can have a nice night, perhaps a hand of piquet?” he said, trying very hard to not offend his friend, to stay and have a good evening in a beautiful suite like he’d hoped for. With Benjamin so close, though, he could smell the gin on him. He clearly had an ulterior agenda for the evening.

“I don’t much care for piquet,” Benjamin said, and leaned closer, face coming closer, his eyes fluttering closed, moving quickly. Aziraphale pursed his lips, but not in a romantic way; he was annoyed. 

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” he said, putting his hand up to stop, turning his face away. Benjamin’s face pressed into his palm instead, and Aziraphale pushed back just a bit. “I think it’s time for bed.” 

With a soft creak of springs, Benjamin fell backwards, head on the pillow, completely asleep. Aziraphale sighed and stood, picking Benjamin’s feet up and putting them on the bed so he’d be more comfortable, and if anyone came upon him before he woke up, it wouldn’t look quite so odd. 

After a moment of consideration, Aziraphale conjured up an empty gin bottle and put in on the bedside table. He wasn’t willing to undress Benjamin or get him under the blankets, so that was the next best thing. 

The suite was lovely, Aziraphale thought, heading back into the sitting room to take a closer look around without Benjamin trying to get him into bed. And since he was already guilty of a few superfluous miracles, he decided a cup of cocoa sounded lovely, and picked up his warm mug from the gold-gilded card table as he passed, admiring the intricate design in the plush carpeting beneath the furniture. 

The sofa lounge was incredibly comfortable, and Aziraphale sat, sipping his cocoa, looking at the paintings that adorned the walls. One by J ean-Honoré Fragonard caught his eye; a woman in a pink dress swinging, surrounded by lush greenery. What had he called that one? Some type of happy accident, he thought, but remembered it being a very  _ obvious _ title. Nice gentleman, Jean-Honor é. 

Aziraphale stood back up to get a closer look at one of the other paintings that looked somehow more familiar, and as soon as he got close enough to the bottom corner, he remembered why. While spending a summer in Italy tempting, oh some king into making a woman his mistress, Madame de Pompadour? Aziraphale struggled to remember, but what he could recall was a very insistent painter looking for models for a piece he had envisioned. He hadn’t taken no for an answer, and had dragged Crowley into his studio, stripped him of his shirt and asked him to hold the biggest shell Aziraphale had seen in hundreds of years. Crowley had hated how the painting had come out, insisting he looked like he’d dried out in the sun and been re-hydrated, but Aziraphale knew it was just because he hadn’t been the center subject of the painting like he’d thought he was going to be. 

Lost in memories of how lovely that summer had been, Aziraphale had a small smile on his face and both his hands curled around his mug when the ship gave an almighty  _ lurch _ that sent him careening sideways, mug flying, last few swallows of chocolate splattering the gold and while door as Aziraphale struggled to stay upright. He heard a horrible metal groaning, scraping that reminded him of the forge where his flaming sword had been created. 

The ship stopped just as abruptly as it had jolted, and Aziraphale got to his feet, waving a hand at the cocoa, making the mug and the stain on the door disappear. He went to the door, pulling it open and finding others in the hallway doing the same, looking around at each other in confusion. 

“What in God’s name was that?” a man in a dressing gown and his hair stuck up on one side asked. A woman came to the door behind him, tying her own dressing gown up. 

“I just heard someone shouting out on deck, through the window that we’ve hit something!” another woman yelled, coming through another suite door, her hair tied in a scarf. 

“Hit something?” 

Everyone was muttering, looking around, trying to decide if they needed to panic or not, and Aziraphale sincerely hoped there was nothing to be worried about. They called it the Unsinkable Ship for a reason, surely. 

A nagging voice in the back of his mind that sounded entirely too much like Crowley was whispering,  _ Unsinkable Ship or no, there’s still a demon on it, and they’re resourceful, angel. If there’s a way to sink an unsinkable ship, a demon can find it.  _

“Not to worry, not to worry! Everyone please, I’ve just spoken to management, and they’d like everyone to enjoy their night back in their cabins. Everything is perfectly fine and under control,” said the lad from the lift, chest thrown out importantly at being given such a job as he walked down the hallway, smiling reassuringly at each passenger. “Mr. Astor, would you like a brandy, sir?” 

Mr. Astor waved him off, and gave a suspicious look around before heading back into his stateroom. 

Aziraphale needed to figure out exactly what was going on. 

He closed the door behind him to Benjamin's suite, silently promising himself he would come back if they were indeed sinking and make sure Benjamin was awake to get to a lifeboat. 

As he practically flew down the hall and up a flight of stairs, he heard other stirring, peeking out, awakened by the jarring crash, the scraping noise, and trying to find out what was happening. Surely they couldn’t be sinking? As he passed the level of the first class dining room he heard the swell of the quartet trying to liven up the late evening, keep people preoccupied with music. 

Aziraphale needed to find that demon, Benjamin’s “friend” he’d passed. But first, he needed to know how bad it was. He burst onto deck through a set of doors that caused some women to shriek and some men grumble about how  _ rude _ he was, but Aziraphale did not have time for all of that and kept moving toward where he was pretty sure he’d felt the hit come from. 

Officers were crowded on the deck, looking over the railing, calling to one another, signaling to a higher deck, maybe to the lookout. None of them paid Aziraphale any mind when he skidded over, sliding on the slick deck. 

“What’s happened?” he asked breathlessly, trying to stop the stitch in his side, pressing a hand over it. One of the officers looked around at him. 

“Everything’s fine, sir, please, go back inside,” he said in a voice that was playing at being calm, worry just beneath the surface. 

“What have we hit? Is… is there any danger?” Aziraphale pitched his voice lower, hoping the officer would speak to him if he didn’t seem hysterical. 

“Really, sir, we have everything under control.” Clearly he wasn’t going to be any help, and Aziraphale pursed his lips, looking up at the lookout, watching a young man climb slowly down; he could see even from so far below that the boy was shaking, concentrating on not falling. Worried. 

He turned and went back to the labyrinth of the inner ship, pausing to decide if he wanted to go up to the Captain’s cabin to demand answers, or down to his room. More people were swarming from their rooms, women in fur coats thrown over their dressing gowns. Stewards moved among them, offering to fetch refreshments. 

“Sorry for the trouble, sir, but it is for safety,” he heard one boy saying apologetically as a man sneered at him, looking annoyed at having been woken at such a late hour. Aziraphale looked at his pocket watch, just as the clock only a level below on the grand staircase sounded the first of a dozen chimes, indicating the late hour. 

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, stuffing the watch back in his pocket, touching a stewardess on the shoulder; when she turned, her eyes were red with lack of sleep, hair a little disheveled and Aziraphale was almost certain her apron was on wrong side out. 

“Sir? Would you like some brandy while you wait? Oh, you don’t have your life vest,” she remarked, finally focusing on him. “There should have been a life vest in your stateroom; we are recommending them at this time, just as a precaution.” It sounded rehearsed, like she’d already had to say it to a dozen people in the last ten minutes. In the distance, Aziraphale heard more grumbles and somebody muttering “poppycock, I say,” and he looked around, almost frantic now to know what was going on. 

“I… yes, thank you, I will go fetch that. I haven’t been to my room recently; was there an announcement?” he asked, giving her an encouraging smile, pushing down his helplessness. If the ship was sinking, he wouldn’t be able to stop it. The Head Office wouldn’t allow something that big without prior orders, and now that it was in motion, it would have been too much to authorize, anyway. He should have stopped it before it had started, and could have, if he’d just  _ known _ . 

“Oh, yes, sir. There’s… well, there was a breech in the hull. They say it’s really nothing to worry about, this is just a precaution, like I said, to wake everyone. I know it’s late, but we appreciate your cooperation,” she kindly, voice veering back to rehearsed. Aziraphale could tell she wasn’t fully aware of what her words meant, yet, of the reality of the situation if it was as bad as it could be, and not just a little scratch, like they were making it out to be. He looked around at everyone milling about, huddled in small circles, some with drinks, one woman lighting her cigarette even though there was no smoking in that part of the ship; no one stopped her. Aziraphale looked back to the young woman, no older than twenty, and put his hands on her shoulders. 

“When the time comes, find yourself a lifeboat. Do you understand?” 

Her big brown eyes widened, and a look crossed her face as if she’d finally woken up from whatever dream she’d been having and understood. 

“Yes,” she said, voice small now, not practiced. Aziraphale felt her heart speed up, like a cornered doe. 

He’d always disliked that part of hunting parties. 

“Good girl. Be safe.” He gave her a little blessing, all he could do in the circumstances. She wouldn’t  _ know _ , of course, but she would find her way to a lifeboat, if any were launched. Rushing out, Aziraphale knew where to look next for the demon who’d done this, and… 

_ Oh, blast _ , he thought.  _ Benjamin _ . Aziraphale couldn’t leave him. They were certainly sinking, and Benjamin was probably still snoring in his slippers. He turned on his heel and promised himself he wouldn’t be doing any more jogging let alone running if he survived this without becoming discorporated. 

The lift was shut, and chained, and Aziraphale wondered where the steward was, if he was up helping keep the masses calm or evacuating the rest of the first class, starting on the second, perhaps. 

There was still time. It  _ was _ supposedly an unsinkable ship, and therefore, maybe it would take a while longer to sink than otherwise, Aziraphale hoped desperately, fighting through a crowd coming up the stairs in steps, noticing the way they all moved, like a kettle nearly ready to boil, the whistling just about to start, and Aziraphale dearly wanted to turn the burner off and make all this stop, but first he had to get back to Benjamin and make sure he hadn’t miracled the man into drowning in his bed. 

“Sir, you’re going the wrong way,” a voice piped up at him, and Aziraphale very nearly ignored it and pressed on, but a hand on his coat, holding his sleeve, forced him to look around. 

“I’m trying to find—oh!” It was the steward from the lift. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. “I was going to find Benjamin. He was, well, quite knocked out when I left his room.” He blushed at his accidental implication but didn’t correct himself. He could hardly tell the boy  _ oh, I’ve just made him fall into a deep sleep with magic, so I must be the one to wake him like some sort of fairy tale _ . 

“We’re taking care of everything, sir, but you really must go up to the deck. Do you need a life vest?” He wouldn’t let go of Aziraphale’s coat. 

“But have you  _ seen _ him? I must make sure he’s okay, and I can get a life vest from my room after.” His patience was wearing thin, and soon he was going to have to just turn the lad around and send him off on his way, forgetting anything about Aziraphale. 

“No sir, but—” he stopped, looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The door was only down the hall. “Just be quick, please, sir. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.” 

His genuine worry melted Aziraphale’s annoyance, and he softened. 

“Your job is to make sure  _ you _ are safe, dear boy. Be well,” he said, bestowing another blessing in as few words as possible. They were getting out of hand, now, but it was too much to just let these kind, good people be hurt, if there was nothing he could do for the ship. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and started moving to herd other first class passengers emerging from their rooms in thick coats and life vests to follow the stream of people. Some were clearly coming up from second class as well, in thick sweaters, some children just wrapped in blankets where parents were too panicked to find coats and shoes. 

Aziraphale knocked on Benjamin’s door, once, then again. No answer. 

“Oh, come on,” he said, and jiggled the handle, opening it like it hadn’t locked behind him when he'd left maybe thirty minutes ago.

He would have some explaining to do at his next Head Office meeting. But it didn’t matter right then. 

“Benjamin!” he called into the room, heading straight back to the bedroom door, pushing through that one, too, without even a courtesy knock. He was right where Aziraphale had left him, still in his slippers, but curled on his side instead of flat on his back, snoring. “Ben! You must wake up, something’s happened!” He snapped his fingers. 

Benjamin shot upright as if from a bad dream and looked wildly around, setting his panicked gaze on Aziraphale. 

“Oh, Azira, I just had the most terrible dream,” he said, bringing a hand to touch his forehead, feeling for a fever no doubt, but Aziraphale didn’t have  _ time.  _ He grabbed Benjamin’s arm and started to haul him toward the door. 

“The ship’s run into an iceberg. They’re evacuating,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“How did you know?” Benjamin asked, not resisting the pull. Aziraphale opened the wardrobe and found a sweater, holding it out. Benjamin put it on unquestioningly. 

“How do I know what? That they’re evacuating? There are stewards outside,” he said, gesturing at the stream of people moving outside the door, still swung wide open. 

“No, my dream. It was about the ship sinking.” 

“It wasn’t a dream,” Aziraphale said. Benjamin just blinked. 

Another man burst through the door, distracting them both from the eerie coincidence of Benjamin’s dream. He was robust and muscled and already had a life vest on beneath his overcoat. 

“Victor!” Benjamin said. “I thought I gave you the night off.” Aziraphale looked between them at the look that passed there, private and warm and a little angry, he thought. 

“Yes, well, I had to come find you in light of recent circumstances,” he said, his voice softer than Aziraphale was expecting. “We must go at once. I told the ladies to wait for us up on deck.” Benjamin hesitated, looking to Aziraphale. 

“Will you—” he started; Victor was clearly trying not to be impatient, but he tapped his foot and looked at his watch. 

“I’ll be fine, of course!” Aziraphale said, trying to be as reassuring as possible, willing Benjamin to believe him and go on with his friends who were  _ actually _ in danger, unlike Aziraphale who could only be inconveniently discorporated. Well, it would be dreadful if it happened, but he wasn’t a mortal and didn’t want Benjamin to worry about him. 

“If you’re sure. I’ll come find you, later,” Benjamin said, and Aziraphale just took his hand, patted the top of it, and then turned to leave, passing Victor’s obviously jealous gaze. Aziraphale had wondered why he hadn’t seen much of Benjamin’s other friends since the first night they’d dined together, but the puzzle pieces fell into place as he left them alone in their room. 

He needed to find the demon going by Eli. He should have asked Benjamin where he was staying, but Aziraphale’s mind was single-track as he was already pushing past swarms of people downward while they were all pressing up. The phrase  _ like rats off a sinking ship _ had never had much of an impact in books until that moment, and Aziraphale couldn’t stand the desperate, knowing looks in everyone’s eyes. It was like the moments before battle, the feigning civility, the churning boil of blood in your ears, and Aziraphale couldn’t face these people. 

Bursting into an empty service hallway, Aziraphale kept moving, breathing hard again from working against the current. The salty tang of seawater met his nose as he opened a door with stairs marked on it and his stomach twisted with the finality of it. 

There was no recovering, no small miracle that would save them. 

He closed the door ( _ pointless _ , he chided himself) and turned, running again back down the hallway, trying to find side passages and other ways of making it up to the deck without pushing along with the masses of people trying to save themselves, save their children. He wouldn’t let this choke him, the overwhelming futility of it all. 

Small miracles being all he could manage, he made his way back up to the deck level, appearing out of a side stairway that may have been hidden or simply nonexistent before, and was much shorter of a climb than it should have been. He was still inside but the blinds were bent and rattling in the wind in one of the open windows. 

The door had only just clicked shut when he heard the screams, the crash of wood against the side of the ship. More screams. 

“Oh, no,” he said, feet carrying him already in the direction of the distress, determined to do what he could, his angelic duty, to help these humans he wanted desperately to protect. 

And then, before he could set eyes on his charges, before he could make it more than a few steps, something touched him on the back of the head, and his last impression before his vision was gone and he was drifting in pure, sweet, calm light was the heady scent of cinnamon. 

  
  


×××××××××××××××××××××

Since the first rumble of the ship’s impact with the giant ice cube, Crowley was awake and looking for Aziraphale. 

He hadn’t left his warm closet since his close encounter with Aziraphale, deeming it too dangerous, too risky. He didn’t want Aziraphale to know he’d  _ followed him _ there, on board, as a stowaway. At least he’d had access to the wine room, but even that was too far too exposed to be safe from sharp angel eyes. And demon eyes, wherever Marbas had gone to, whatever tempting he was doing to pass the time until he was going to sink the whole damn boat. 

The impact had jolted him awake, and he shed his blankets like a skin and left his downy pillows nest, heading out the door before he could even remember his plan. 

The plan was simple. On a sinking ship, it was women and children first. Obviously. So Crowley would be a woman. Simple. He would find Aziraphale, wherever he was doing good, the do gooder, probably panicking that he couldn’t save everyone, and… get him to a lifeboat. 

The plan had flaws. Like how, precisely, he was going to get Aziraphale to a lifeboat, and then, arguably more difficulty, on a lifeboat. There were a number of ways he’d considered. His favorite, because it saved him the terrifying ordeal of having to admit he was saving the angel to his face, was to put him to sleep and just carry him to a lifeboat. 

The flaw was that most people weren’t used to women in tightly laced corsets carrying men across the decks and flopping them down into lifeboats. It might raise more suspicions than he was willing to have raised. 

_ Oh, bollocks, _ he thought as he heard folks from the engine room stirring, a commotion about getting out of the bowels of the ship before the emergency doors locked them down for good. He stopped around a corner, out of sight, and heard alarms, the red lights casting a very hellish glow over the whole place. He snapped, looking down, and suddenly his clothing was much heavier, skirts weighing him down, corset laced tightly, like he liked when he wore corsets, and sleeves restraining his shoulders. He had a shawl, too, black and thickly woven, and boots that clacked as he hurried up the hallway, not in danger anymore of being seen changing. 

Surely, someone would have just as well locked him behind one of the emergency doors if they’d seen him putting on a dress. 

Crowley cursed as his skirts tripped him, starting up the stairs, hearing a sudden rush of water behind him, smelling the salt and flames from the engine room, steam billowing behind him. He’d been so long wearing pants that the skirt, reminding him of his robe in the Garden, his robe at the Crucifixion, and in Rome, was just a little too foreign for him to get his footing immediately, especially with the damned heels on his boots. He yanked his skirts up in fists full of heavy black and red, showing off his legs nearly to the knee as he climbed, desperate to get back up to deck and find his angel. 

The water rising behind him brought men, too, who were desperate to get away, up to the imagined safety of the deck above. 

“Wha—Miss! Excuse me, miss, what in the  _ hell _ are you doing here?” a voice called from the bottom of the stairs, dribbles of water already starting to stream along the floor Crowley had just come up from. When he turned back, petite, dark glasses hiding his yellow eyes, he saw four men, sweaty, wet, like they’d swam to the stairs, all gasping and climbing up after him. 

“Is that really a pressing matter?” he asked, nodding at the water pooling now at the foot of the stairs. The men all followed his gaze and started climbing again, taking the stairs two at a time where they could. 

“Better hurry, ma’am, you don’t want to get caught down there,” one said, taking Crowley’s hand. He pulled it away like a burn, a memory as sharp as a knife, as cold as the water steadily chasing them overwhelming him. 

“I can manage,” Crowley said, voice icy. The man just gave him a wild look and then glanced down past him at the rising water, slow and steady and already probably choking people. 

Hiking skirts up even higher, hoping not to let the water seep in and pull him down, Crowley couldn’t help but think of the flood, how he’d stayed on the ground when the rains came and Noah and his wife and his sons were cozy and safe in the ship, and how a kind man had offered him a hand up, yellow eyes and all, to the roof of his home where he and his wife and their daughter were hopelessly praying the water not come any higher. 

And when it rose to their ankles, they begged, they pleaded, they offered all they had, but the Almighty had made up Her mind, and if there was one thing She didn’t do, Crowley knew, the one cold and unforgiving fact of this whole damned existence, She did not admit that She was wrong. She’d rather let the innocent punished serve as a reminder to the wicked undetected. 

Colliding into the backside of one of the engine workers shook Crowley right out of his unhappy memories and he steadied himself on the stair railing. They were nearly a floor above the flooding, but nobody was moving, and Crowley had places to be, angels to save.

“What’s the hold up?” he asked, unladylike from the vicinity of the men's rears. Pushing past, he saw a gate was shut over the stairway, metal accordion prison bars. A death sentence. Crowley wondered who’d finally remembered there weren’t enough lifeboats—another stroke up ingenuity from Marbas—and decided to make it easier to choose who did and did not get one. 

It was always going to be easy to decide, Crowley thought. It always had been. The women and children first was only if there was still room after for the wealthy men, the privileged, like Noah, pious and unquestioning, unwavering in his loyalty. 

“We’re trapped! Help!” one of the men yelled, echoing down the hallway, ringing off the metal of the walls as low as they were. Crowley pushed harder past them, shoving one into the wall hard enough he heard a loud  _ clang _ when his head bounced. They all pushed themselves impossibly flat against the walls, all four apparently scared of an assertive woman. 

Crowley pitied their wives. 

“It’s locked, ma’am,” one said, the one who’d yelled. 

“Obviously it’s locked. They’re trying to make sure there are enough lifeboats,” he said through gritted teeth as he reached around and touched the lock, plucking a hair pin that hadn’t been there moments before from the knot on his head and pretending to pick it. 

He actually could have, given another hair pin and some time and patience, two things he had none of and one still holding his hair up. 

The miracle worked just as well. The lock shuddered and clicked, falling open and then to the floor with a mighty clatter and a little puff of smoke. The men cheered, all patting Crowley on the shoulder as they would a brother in arms or someone who’d won them a team sports game. 

“Where’d a fine lady as yourself learn to pick locks?” one man asked and Crowley just fixed him with a stare and lowered his spectacles, giving him a good view of the yellow eyes. He balked and turned to run after his friends. Crowley rolled his eyes and went in the opposite direction. 

When he passed the next set of stairs, this one coming from the berths in third class, he slowed from his run, the people yelling, crying, begging, and Crowley could only hear the prayers of those the flood took. He snapped his fingers, and the lock fell from that door, too. It would sow more confusion, more panic and greed if more people were on deck, he rationalized to himself in case his higher-ups ever questioned the move. When the passengers just stood there, dumbfounded, Crowley stopped and actually pulled the metal screen open. 

“Fingers, fingers,” he said, specifically to a little girl with blonde ringlets and big eyes that looked like a churning ocean. Her fingers, clutching the door, pulled back immediately, and she waved at Crowley as her mother scooped her up to run toward the center of the ship. Crowley kept moving, unlocking locks where he needed to get through and sometimes for passengers until finally,  _ finally _ he was up on the deck, the cold air slapping his face, pulling at his curled hair. 

One name clawed at Crowley’s throat, desperate to be shouted into the panicky crowds, wanting so very much to see him turn around in some ridiculous life vest with a shy smile turning to delight at seeing his old friend. 

Instead, he pushed forward, skirts still hoisted high, panic in his chest threatening to tear through the laces of his corset. He scanned around, looking for blonde hair and hands that didn’t stop fidgeting and that worried look Aziraphale got with his brows pressed together and the curved wrinkles between his eyes. 

“Madam, we’re asking everyone to put on a life vest,” a boy started, but Crowley turned and a dark stare stopped him from pestering further. 

“A life vest isn’t going to save anyone, now is it?” he asked, voice rather louder than it needed to be; some people nearby heard while they were milling around anxiously. The words spread like fire—Crowley could hear them, frantic whispers catching from one group to another, small mobs of people pushing forward toward the lifeboats, demanding their places in them, some picking up their children and presenting them like tokens of admission. 

People always panicked, and Crowley usually enjoyed it like he enjoyed a cheap bottle of wine, not for the nuance of it, but for the entertainment. But he still didn’t see Aziraphale, and that was making the panic bubble up in him even faster, wondering where in Satan’s name he’d gotten to, what he’d gotten himself into. Because he was always getting himself into trouble for stupid reasons. And if Aziraphale ever argued, his only counterpoint was  _ The French Revolution _ . That always stopped the protests. Mostly. 

Rounding a corner, pushing past people flowing in the opposite direction, past the string quartet who’d moved on to the deck and set up to start play ( _ fools, what fools, being good won’t save you! _ Crowley wanted to shout at them) he stopped dead in his tracks, nearly knocked sideways by a woman half-carrying half-dragging a crying child. 

Behind a window full of broken blinds, blonde curls emerged from a door in such an awkward place that Crowley was sure it hadn’t been there moments before. He watched, stupidly rooted to the spot, as Aziraphale closed the door and straightened his jacket like he always did. 

A scream, high and loud and clear, pierced the air behind him, back where the panic had started, and then a loud crash, louder than the scraping noise when the ship had been hit, echoed over the glassy surface of the water. When Crowley looked back to Aziraphale, he was already making his way toward the source of the disturbance, looking determined and worried, and Crowley dove behind a pillar, bumping against bodies all moving where he was trying to be still. 

He had to think, only had moments before Aziraphale got himself in trouble, tangled up in all the helping that he didn’t have time to save himself, and then where would Crowley be? 

This is what he’d needed the holy water for. Sure, yes, in case of threat of torture, but it had been for more than that. Crowley could handle torture. But being without Aziraphale for the rest of Eternity? 

Oh,  _ absolutely  _ not. 

Crowley spun himself around the pillar and propelled himself toward Aziraphale, who was walking as quickly as his legs could carry him. Crowley reached out desperately, pressing two fingers to the back of Aziraphale’s head, knocking him out cold, and rushing forward to catch him before the crowd started to stampede. 

Nobody was paying them any mind, and Crowley certainly didn’t give a damn what they thought anyway, because he was there, Aziraphale fainted in his arms, just before he’d hit the ground, his face slack, but worry still etched between his brows where they’d just been furrowed. The screams continued back the way he came, but Crowley knew there were more lifeboats, better chances to get Aziraphale into one, somehow. He took just a moment longer to look over Aziraphale’s face, the lines and curves, his cheek and his lips, parted slightly, and then shook himself out of it. 

_ No time to be lovesick, idiot _ , he told himself, hauling Aziraphale up and holding him under one arm, letting his feet drag. His shoes would be scuffed along the toes, and Aziraphale would be so irritated if he could see Crowley letting his shoes befall such a fate, but it was better than the alternative. Crowley was just going to keep telling himself that. Better than the alternative. 

He took a shortcut through where most people had already abandoned, in the interior of the deck, through the dining room, and down a flight of stairs, using a little demonic miracle to keep Aziraphale upright and help him keep from dragging Crowley down if he slipped. Doors were locked wherever he went, and finally in anger, he kicked one open; an empty deck met him, with the rigging for a lifeboat to be lowered, and a covered boat, seemingly forgotten. 

“Oh, it can’t be that easy,” he said aloud, looking around, wondering who was waiting to ambush him and ruin it like others were being ruined, or launched with half a dozen passengers. 

He sat Aziraphale down, looking closer at the boat and seeing that, with just a little magic, it could be lowered and launched without fuss. He could even put Aziraphale in his own private lifeboat and set him adrift, make him wake up shortly so he could get to the rescue boat that had to be coming. And Crowley could come with, become a snake and hide under the seat, and somehow sneak his way on to the rescue ship. 

He’d figure it out. He always managed to. 

“This way, now,” said a rich voice, accompanied by two sets of adult footsteps, and half a dozen children or more. Crowley turned to find two men dressed as if for the grandest of dinners accompanied by some downright disheveled children, the oldest among them maybe sixteen, carrying the youngest, not even two years old. Crowley lowered his arm, having been just about to snap his fingers and set the mechanics to hoist the boat to work. They were all looking behind them, as if to see if they were followed by the screaming, and a booming voice barking muffled orders, and Crowley took a deep breath, wondering if, perhaps, just this once he should  _ trust _ people to do something  _ good _ . 

He turned into a snake and slipped inside the sleeve of Aziraphale’s coat, winding up his arm and down into the deep, warm inside pocket of the coat. The entire thing smelled of him, of that unique combination of paper, ink and stories waiting to be told, and of warm chocolate, and strong tea. 

Coiling into the pocket, he could hear the conversation outside of the coat. 

“There’s a boat, there, Mr. Guggenheim.” That must have been the eldest girl. Her voice was matter of fact. 

Guggenheim?  _ Of course it was that ponce who’d been spending an alarming amount of time with Aziraphale _ , Crowley thought. 

“Please, my dear, call me Ben,” he said, and Crowley rolled his eyes as much as they would do as a snake. Couldn’t risk a good hiss exposing him. 

“Ben.” the other man’s voice, deep and booming. “Is that… your friend?” 

The footsteps stopped, all of them, while everyone presumably stared at Aziraphale trying to decide if it was truly him or not. 

“Azira!” Ben yelled, rushing forward, touching his face, jostling Crowley in the coat. He would have gagged at the nickname if he could have. 

_ Not even a real name,  _ he thought.  _ How daft can you be? _

“Victor, help me get him into the lifeboat.” Everything started shifting and Crowley felt they were being lifted into the air, and then sat down lovingly. 

“I thought it was women and children first,” said Victor, but Ben didn’t answer. 

More rocking of the boat as others were lifted or climbed by themselves into the lifeboat. Crowley tried to stay as still as possible; he did not need anyone trying to decide what to do about the wriggling thing in Aziraphale’s pocket. Once a seventh child climbed into the boat, Crowley felt the men starting to raise it up over the side of the deck so they could lower it into the icy water. 

“Wait! Mr… Ben, aren’t you coming with us? Both of you?” asked one of the young boys who sounded no older than ten. 

“I’m afraid not, Albert,” said Ben. “ We've dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.” 

What a  _ complete _ ponce. 

_ At least _ , he consoled himself,  _ Aziraphale didn’t hear that, and won’t be composing sonnets to him for it. _

The boat lowered in jerking motions that made Crowley almost seasick even after being on the boat for a week. 

“If he wakes up, make sure he’s seen to, please,” Ben said, sounding further away with every jerk of the ropes making the boat stutter. 

One of the children started crying, quietly, but he was sitting close to Aziraphale, and Crowley could feel the heaving sobs, separate from the rocks of the water. 

There were still screams and Crowley was certain he heard a gunshot, and at least two of the kids grabbed oars to push the boat away from the wreckage. 

But they were safe. Safe enough. 

Aziraphale was safe. Crowley settled in to wait, listening to Aziraphale’s unnecessary but beautiful heartbeat, letting it drown everything else out, even as the ship sank with thousands of innocent souls into the ocean. 

  
  


×××××××××××××××××××××

The hours in the lifeboats felt longer than the last thousand years as the screams around them that he couldn’t stop slowed and died, the sobbing turned to shivering turned to fitful sleep, the children around him clinging to each other, the boy in his lap, fingers nearly frozen to the lapel of Aziraphale’s coat, clinging for life. Really, clinging for life. 

Aziraphale soothed him, touched his forehead, gave him lovely, kind dreams and made him warm. He didn’t even know the boy’s name, only that he had red hair, and big eyes squeezed tight shut and nobody had even put on his shoes before he’d been set in the lifeboat like Moses on the river. All he could do was keep the children safe, now, until the ship in the distance, too late for most, finally made its slow way through the freezing waters to collect the survivors. 

×××××××××××××××××××××

Walking slowly, eyes scanning the survivors as men with clipboards and pencils moved among them, stopping to take down names and addresses for records before moving on to the next, Aziraphale finally admitted to himself that Benjamin had not made it onto a lifeboat. 

_ Of course he didn’t _ , he told himself.  _ He was too good to go when others were still unsafe _ . 

Aziraphale wished he’d been the one chaperoning women and children into lifeboats. He still had no idea how he’d ended up lying in the bottom of the little boat, only waking up when the ship had disappeared into the black waters to the sounds of crying, of screaming, of sobs and pain. 

“Ah, Aziraphale! You survived, then. Good. Less messy. No paperwork,” a voice boomed from behind him, and he jumped, almost right out of his shoes. He turned, trying not to reveal the repulsion he had for the voice’s owner. 

Gabriel stood tall and immaculately dressed as ever, a long stone grey coat over a dove gray suit with a matching top hat, silk scarf the only thing remotely colorful, blushing lavender—no doubt sold by a tailor who said it would bring out his eyes, and his pocketbook. 

“I… well, yes, here I am. Heard about the catastrophe, then?” he asked, wondering why Gabriel was on Earth at all. What he wanted to ask was more blasphemous and included a few words he would have had to borrow from Crowley. 

“Just here seeing that the Divine Plan went, well, according to plan. And I do believe it has! The survivors do look a bit rough, though, don’t they?” He paused. “Yourself included, Aziraphale, you may want to tidy yourself up. Looking a little worn.” 

“The… excuse me, that was part of the  _ Plan _ ?!” Aziraphale practically spat in surprise and outrage, staring incredulously at Gabriel’s cool expression. “An entire ship sinking into the sea? Thousands of people, innocent people, dead?” 

Gabriel gave him a pointed nod.

“Innocent. Innocent people. Died looking for a new dream. All souls for our side.” He looked out at the sea of people wrapped in blankets, clothes that didn’t fit quite right, some clinging to each other if they were lucky enough to have survived with a loved one. Aziraphale couldn’t look at them any longer. He’d been among them since the lifeboats were rescued; he knew them, had healed some, kept others from needing frozen limbs and digits removed, or given children restful thoughts so they could sleep. 

Aziraphale looked at Gabriel’s face instead; his eyes were much more subtly violet, easily mistaken for blue on the mortal plane. He saw how cold and unfeeling they were. Gabriel had always had that quality about him, a sort of impersonal detachment from human suffering that Aziraphale had found in some doctors, desensitized to trauma because they had to be to do their jobs. During the Flood, Gabriel had been the one to deliver the message to the angels, that they should not interfere. The Plague had been another hard time for some angels, but Gabriel had been positively upbeat at the heavy traffic heading upstairs. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

“Well.” He couldn’t even bring himself to say something like  _ I suppose if it’s the plan, that’s alright _ or  _ they’re in a better place _ or even just tell Gabriel to leave, to shove off and leave him to his grief because that was all he had left in him. He just looked out to the cold, unfeeling sea. If it had been just a bit more purple, it really would have reminded him of Gabriel. 

“We shall see you back in the Head Office once you get back to London. I intend to find a milliner recommended to me by a man in a wonderfully made silk hat, so I ought to be off,” Gabriel said, his bright mood blinding in the gloom of the day. Aziraphale nodded, giving him only a glance, all he could manage. 

“My return ship won’t be sinking, will it?” he asked with the bitterness hidden just enough that he couldn’t be accused of insubordination, but Gabriel was already gone, strolling alone, a spring in his step, toward the city proper. 

To buy a hat. 

Aziraphale dropped himself down on the nearest bench, leaning back, eyes closed, and shoved his hands in his pockets to look for his gloves. It was beastly cold with the wind coming off the water, and he knew he needed to wait and give his name, his false name, for the registry of survivors so he wouldn’t be presumed dead—what would happen to his books?—but all he wanted to do was find a nice little tea shop and sit next to a fireplace for the next few years. 

“Oh, for the love of—!” Aziraphale stopped himself, pulling his hand out of his pocket again, a little tiny bead of blood welling up at the point of his finger. But with his fingertip in his mouth, a realization dawned on him. He reached back in the pocket, careful again, just like the first time he’d seen pricked himself on them. 

He pulled the broken, dark glasses out of the pocket, looking at them with new eyes, wondering how he’d doubted himself before. There was no way anyone else could have possibly… could they? No one but an angel,  _ or a demon _ , his nagging inner voice that sounded like Crowley reminded him, could have done what must have happened and gotten Aziraphale into that boat. 

He looked up, suddenly, like he was going to see a flash of red hair and a dark coat. Many dark coats, and even some red hair among the sea of solemn faces, but of course he was being silly.

Aziraphale leaned back again, running his thumb over the smoky intact lens, glass cold and smooth, waiting for someone to come ask his name. 

He passed the next hour making a list of ways to thank Crowley, if they ever spoke again.

_ When you speak again _ , he reminded himself. 


End file.
